


Make Me Warm or Take Me Home

by idiotbrothers



Category: Machine Gun Kelly (Musician)
Genre: Banter, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Gender Related, Happy Ending, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Makeup, Male fragility, POV Dominic Harrison, Pining, Sensuality, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: Dom thinks he knows what he's getting himself into when he and Colson start messing around, but as it turns out, he might have been banking on flawed assumptions.Alternate Summary:"I have caught myself doing some British shit sometimes." —Colson BakerAKA Machine Gun Kelly↳ In which Dominic issome British shit.
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Dominic Harrison | Yungblud
Comments: 38
Kudos: 131





	Make Me Warm or Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> RPF Disclaimer: This is all completely made up! Please don't be weird.
> 
> Title is from "Summer's End" by Foo Fighters.

“Maybe I’ll dye my hair pink,” Colson says at random, pushing his overgrown blond mop out of his face as he regards himself in the mirror pensively, chin tilted up.

Dom’s eyes cut from Colson’s reflection in the mirror to the back of his head, where his dark roots are particularly prominent. “Sure, why not,” Dom says lightly, cracking open the bottle of orange juice he’d nicked from Colson’s fridge a minute ago and taking a swig.

“You don’t think people’d give me shit for it?”

Dom frowns, then consciously neutralizes his expression before Colson can notice. “People give you shit for _everything_ , man. Shouldn’t matter.”   
  
“Hmm. I just wanna do something different. Getting bored of myself lately.”   
  
“You do look at yourself an awful lot,” Dom says cheekily, plastering on an innocent expression when Colson whips around to face him, hand pointing warningly.  
  
“Hey,” he says, stern voice at odds with the gleam in his eyes that betrays his mirth. “Can you blame me, being the _sex god_ that I am? I’d fuck me.”  
  
“You say it like you’re joking but I know you’re not,” Dom says, unable to keep from grinning. “Sometimes I wonder if you were always so in love with yourself.”   
  
“Fuuuck no,” Colson says, face twisting into a sort of sneer. “I earned this shit, dude. You’ve seen what I looked like as a kid.”   
  
“You were cute,” Dom says insistently.   
  
“Hell naw. Gnarliest lookin’ Bugs Bunny motherfucker you ever seen.”   
  
“Oh, shut up,” Dom says, huffing. Colson is always so hyperbolic. Dom supposes that makes sense, considering he lives his entire life in extremes. “Are you gonna stop eyefucking yourself long enough for us to pick up where we left off, or should I give you a moment alone with your hand?”   
  
“Damn, you’re even needier than I am,” Colson says, striding over to pin Dom to his headboard, smile brilliant as he leans in to mouth at the underside of his jaw. Dom’s eyes flutter shut in relief, his hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets against the loose grip of Colson’s long fingers. Colson slides his knee in between Dom’s legs, then abruptly asks, “But seriously, should I do it? The hair?”  
  
Dom groans. “Please just fuck me already.” 

* * *

  
Sometimes, Dom forgets to censor himself around Colson. It’s a symptom of how much closer they’re getting - Dom’s unfiltered thoughts leaking out when they’re in the privacy of Colson’s bedroom with their hands all over each other. He’ll say something mindlessly honest, like, _Fuck, your pretty mouth_ , or accidentally call him _Babe_ , and Colson will recoil like he’s been slapped across the face, his eyebrows drawing together with displeasure. He usually recovers soon after, either by way of his own actions (flipping Dom over like he’s a ragdoll and pressing his tongue against the cleft of his ass) or by way of Dom’s, calculated to appeal to Colson’s base wants (taking Colson’s hand and guiding it under the folds of his dress to wrap around his dick, whispering desperate pleas into the side of his neck while their hands stroke out a clumsy rhythm).   
  
They don’t talk about it.

Dom silently observes the way Colson interacts with the neverending cavalcade of women he wants to fuck, hands and mouth and words so soft while his eyes disclose a sliver of the insatiable hunger that simmers beneath it all. Some women will adorn him with affectionate pet names, manicured thumb swiping across his cheek while he smiles and smoothes his knuckles over a bare, bronzed shoulder.  
  
What Dom has with Colson is a game of painful parallels and contrasts.  
  
Once, the two of them are drunk enough that Dom has the blind courage to ask, “Do you sleep with a lot of other blokes?” And Colson releases this odd, stilted little laugh.  
  
He follows it up with, “I try to be careful with that. Special arrangements only, ‘else it’d get out and the industry would fuck _me_ up the ass.” Takes a long drink, lowers the bottle to stare down at Dom with a wry twist to his mouth. Says, “Still… I have needs.”  
  
Dom feels a stab of nausea at the same time that his heart starts beating faster at the eye contact. He moistens his lips nervously. “Would you… would you ever consider… voluntarily coming out? It’d be, like - a weight off your chest.” It’s a bold thing to say, especially given Dom himself has never officially clarified his sexuality to the public. People make their own assumptions, and he’s happy enough to let them do so. Colson, on the other hand…   
  
“I’m not _gay_.” He’s suddenly scowling, the expression casting his already-sharp features in a mean and uncompromising light.   
  
“No,” Dom agrees, swallowing, “You’re bi. Or maybe pan.”  
  
Colson shakes his head. “Man, fuck a label. Nothing could convince me to invite that typa scrutiny into my life. I can just see what my homies would say to me, let alone my reps.”   
  
Dom droops in his seat, dejected. He can’t help the forlorn sigh that escapes him, his heart feeling waterlogged and heavy.  
  
Colson slings an arm over his shoulders, crowds into Dom’s space. “I’m sorry,” he says, suddenly tender, stroking a lock of Dom’s hair away from his face. “You know I think you’re punk as fuck, for being yourself and not feeling like you gotta explain shit to anybody. But I’m… not there.”  
  
Dom raises his head hopefully. “Implying you will be, eventually.”  
  
Colson winces. “I can’t promise you that. It’s just, uh… not really my vibe.”   
  
Dom shifts away from him, dislodging his arm and letting it slump back down to his side.   
  
“Aw, it’s gonna be like _that_?” His voice is perfectly neutral, and Dom resents that. He wants him to feel the same hurt that he does.  
  
“C’mon,” Colson says, tipping Dom’s chin up with two fingers, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. Dom’s mouth cracks open instinctively, and he sees the barest shadow of a smug smile pass across Colson’s face in response.  
  
“Piss off,” Dom rasps, but it sounds unconvincing even to him. 

* * *

  
Dom can’t help but feel like Colson is grappling with an intensifying identity crisis. No matter what he feeds the press, he cares a _lot_ about what people think of him, and people have always been a bit thrown by his… incongruencies.  
  
Former white trash, unrepentant party animal, professed anarcho-punk. Spitting vitriol through a perfectly shaped mouth. Modelesque and up to his neck in ink. Unafraid of many traditionally “effeminate” vehicles of presentation, but hypermasculine when wounded. Pastel pink velour and silver grills. Rapping about spilling blood over a delicate guitar loop or crooning about his broken heart over a bass-heavy hip hop beat.  
  
Dom can honestly wax poetic about him forever, about this man who lives between musical genres and juggles personalities the way he does knives. Not that he’ll ever admit it to Colson, but a few briskly scribbled lines about him live between the pages of the notebook he reserves for song ideas. His whole dichotomous, mercurial _thing_ is just too compelling to leave alone.  
  
Dom is given the opportunity to probe at its borders sometimes, like when they’re reading comments on a video collab between the two of them and some stray old-school hip-hop head will have called Colson a litany of homophobic names. Colson will scoff like he does when he’s pissed off but trying not to show it, muttering something under his breath, shoulders stiffening.  
  
Dom will gently inquire, _Why’s it bother you so much? Some prick whose opinion isn’t worth shit-all_.   
  
_It doesn’t_ , Colson will reply stubbornly, _You know I got a thick skin_.   
  
_That’s a load of crap_. Warm, teasing, one hand rifling through his friend’s freshly washed hair.  
  
Colson will try and fail to suppress a smile, relaxing into Dom’s touch. _What, you don’t believe in my undying patience?_ Dom will roll his eyes and leverage himself into Colson’s lap, hands on his strong shoulders. _Horny again already, huh_.   
  
_You smell really good_ , Dom will say, unabashed, _and you’re in no position to judge me_.  
  
 _Never_ , Colson will agree, fingernails digging into the bare skin of Dom’s thighs when Dom ruts against him.  
  
Dom feels like he’s addicted to it; to the open-mouthed, reverential expression on Colson’s face when they’re together like this; to his palms snaking possessively upward to grip Dom’s waist; to the new bruises he’ll admire on his own skin the following morning. Dom will kiss him and kiss him until they’re both breathless, Colson’s ruinous goddamn mouth worn red and stained with Dom’s lipstick when they break apart momentarily, his eyes glazed over like he’s drunk. Dom will push a hand up through Colson’s already-tousled hair, fingers threading through the bleached strands as he leans up to press their foreheads together, breaths growing progressively less harsh.  
  
He cherishes these moments of intimacy that Colson usually loses himself to even when his guard is up. Colson, when all is said and done, is a tactile, hypersensitive paradox of a man. Squishy-soft interior scarred by old heartbreak, shielded with habitual masculine attitudinizing. There are chinks in his armor that Dom is becoming more adept at finding by the day.  
  
 _You’ve nothing to be insecure about_ , Dom will say to him, fingers ghosting over the achingly beautiful hollow of Colson’s cheekbone. And whereas normally, such a comment would elicit a knee-jerk denial of the notion that he would _ever_ display any sort of emotional weakness, in the arresting honesty of the moment, Colson will simply envelop Dom in a tight hug, will bury his face in the crook of Dom’s neck and whisper words of gratitude there like they are hastily escaping a formidable door that’s been locked for ages.  
  
Out of all the memories they now share, these are the ones that Dom fretfully plays back when he’s struggling to fall asleep in his own bed, his hopeless heart fit to burst. 

* * *

  
There’s nothing quite like being onstage with Machine Gun Kelly.  
  
Dom is magnetized to him when they’re performing together, unable to tear his eyes away. His stage presence is so _big_ , so vibrant and hypnotizing that Dom needs to effortfully avoid getting swallowed up by it. Dom will hover at his side during the opening chorus and first verse of _I Think I’m OKAY_ , mouthing along to the almost painfully nostalgic lyrics, watching his nimble fingers pluck at his guitar and wrap around the handle of his mic. When he launches into his own verse, he’ll bask in the knowledge that Kells is watching him, as admiringly as he had that very first day in his home studio as Dom demonstrated to him exactly what he could do for this song. It makes his scalp tingle and his cheeks flush, injecting his performance with new life.  
  
The two of them usually crowdsurf sometime around the final chorus, a cacophonous swirl of noise and touch whiting out Dom’s thoughts. Giddy screams and booming music and many strange hands on his bare legs and sweat trickling down his spine. The sound of Kells singing the chorus somewhere nearby, voice somehow steady despite the rocking of the crowd, is always grounding.  
  
They converge on their way back to the stage and Colson squeezes his hand as he helps him up, Dom wanting so badly to kiss him right there in front of hundreds of spectators, to ride the wave of adrenaline coursing through his body to its inevitable conclusion sooner rather than later. But of course, he crushes the impulse as soon as it appears. He keeps himself under control as Kells makes searing eye contact with him while they scream _goodnight_ into the same microphone, both their voices raw with exertion, both their bodies hot and overstimulated.  
  
Once the final note reverberates through the air and the audience explodes into ebullient cheers, Dom tugs Kells into a practically violent hug, fingers scraping over his sweat-slick bare back and chest wracked with panting breaths and residual energy. They break apart not a moment too soon and it’s just _Colson_ that’s gazing back at Dom when they do, an exhilarated grin splitting his face like this is new to him, like they haven’t performed this one song to a gloriously engaged audience dozens of times by now. He looks young and awed and Dom is fiercely grateful to know him at all, to have collaborated with him musically and to have a place in his life.  
  
“Shit’s _insane_ ,” Colson says hoarsely, turning to wave at the crowd.  
  
 _I think I’m falling in love with you_. Dom stares up at him as that thought swells in his mind, unassailable.  
  
He lets out a shocked gasp when without warning, Colson lifts him off his feet and hoists him over his shoulder, one arm securely clamped across his back.  
  
“What - Oi, Col - ”  
  
Dom is distantly aware that the crowd is going absolutely mental, but he’s more preoccupied with his hammering heartbeat and the blood rushing to his head.  
  
“I won’t drop you,” Colson says, “Trust me, I’m stronger than I look.”  
  
And he takes him backstage like that, carefully setting him down and giving him this stupid self-satisfied smile that has Dom dragging him into a frantic kiss the second they’re hidden from sight.

* * *

  
Dom is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  
  
A series of unfortunate events - including a cruelly misrepresentative article published about him in a reputable music journal, a dickhead ex boyfriend DMing him a chat-up line after years of silence, and mud getting all over his favorite creepers - culminated in the news that his overseas flight the following day had been cancelled due to bad weather. He’s supposed to be going back home to Doncaster to see his sisters, and he’s so dispirited by this latest cosmic _fuck you_ that he’s putting off calling his airline’s customer service line to get it sorted.  
  
Colson had texted him earlier, asking if he wanted to _hang_ (which is code for _fuck each other’s brains out_ ) before he left the States, and that’s where Dom is now, folded into Colson’s comfiest couch, uncharacteristically gloomy. It’s one of those ultra rare moments when they have Colson’s house to themselves, and the silence is deafening.  
  
“Yo, why’re you so quiet? It’s weirding me out,” Colson says, smoke curling out of his mouth.  
  
“I’m in a shit mood,” Dom says plainly, crossing his arms around himself.  
  
“I could tell,” Colson says, and then, “Do you wanna talk about it?”  
  
Dom shakes his head, frowning.  
  
“Well, uhh… are you still tryna fuck?”  
  
Dom’s frown twists into a grimace, and Colson immediately raises both hands in surrender, talking around the joint between his lips. “Nope. Clearly not. My bad.”   
  
Dom exhales audibly and digs his knuckles into his left eyelid. “Sorry. I could’ve turned you down when you texted. But I dunno, I s’pose I wanted to see you anyway.”   
  
Colson hums, and a pause that Dom doesn’t currently have the mental strength to interpret elapses.  
  
And just as Dom is starting to worry that he’s upset, he says, “How ‘bout you give me that makeover you’re always talking about?”   
  
Dom blinks, taken aback. “What?”   
  
Colson nods impassively. “I’m giving you permission to put makeup on me.”   
  
Dom sits up straight, his brain starting to stir into a more typical state of excited buzzing. “You’re joking.”  
  
“Me? Never,” Colson says, deadpan.   
  
“I don’t care if you really _are_ joking; you spoke it into the universe so it’s happening either way.”  
  
A thought occurs to Dom. “Hang on, do you even have any makeup products here?”   
  
Colson stands, says, “I do, actually. Don’t ask why.”  
  
He disappears upstairs for a few moments and comes back with a couple of sequined pouches, which he promptly unzips before crouching to dump their contents out onto the coffee table.  
  
Dom paws eagerly over the various lipsticks and eyeliner pencils and single eyeshadows, already drafting possible looks in his head. He looks up at Colson after a few seconds of this to ask, “Any preferences?”  
  
“Not at all. I am but a canvas.” He says this with faux pompousness, waving the hand holding his joint in the air.  
  
Dom snorts, then starts gathering up the products he intends to use. He’s never applied makeup to any face but his own before, but he knows he wants to go for a different type of look on Colson than the ones he’s personally partial to.  
  
“Come here,” Dom says, and Colson takes a seat on the couch next to him, chin in his hand, watching as he tests concealer shades on his arm. “For your undereyes,” Dom explains as he holds up the swatches to compare them to Colson’s skin tone.  
  
“Ouch,” Colson says lightly, “I’ve been using this fancy-ass eye cream and everything.”   
  
“You know what? You’re right,” Dom says, shoving the tubes of concealer back into the pile on the table. “Fuck that shit. We’re going simple today.”   
  
“Whoa, whoa. Don’t say _today_ like this isn’t a one-time thing.”   
  
“I’m converting you. You’ll see,” Dom says firmly.   
  
Colson mutters something under his breath that Dom doesn’t quite catch, except for the words _outta pocket_.   
  
To Colson’s credit, he doesn’t complain a bit while Dom works, remaining endearingly still as Dom gently taps at his eyelids and his cheeks. Lips are the finishing touch, and Dom sits back to admire the end result once he’s screwed the cap back on the tube of lipgloss he’d used.  
  
“You’re already done?” Colson asks, surprised. “I thought for sure I’d be sitting here for an hour with a crick in my neck.”  
  
Dom doesn’t answer, too busy gawking at him. Pearlescent silver eyeshadow intensifying the blue of his irises, icy highlighting powder making his cheekbones look all but photoshopped, a swipe of clear gloss hugging the curve of his bottom lip. Three extremely simple enhancements, and yet Dom is captivated by their combined effect.   
  
“Dom?”   
  
“Sorry! Got distracted by how fuckin’ gorgeous you look.”   
  
Funnily enough, Colson seems embarrassed by this. He huffs out a sort of indignant noise, runs a hand through his hair.   
  
“Here, see for yourself,” Dom says, handing him a compact blusher with a mirror inside the lid.  
  
Colson says nothing as he looks at his reflection, squinting a bit and turning his head left and right. He must realize that Dom is waiting to hear a verdict, because he finally says, “Kinda hard.”  
  
“You hate it,” Dom says, reading him like an open book.  
  
Colson glances at him, smiling sheepishly. “I guess I always assumed you’d give me the Marilyn Manson treatment. You know in the video for _This Is The New Shit_ , where he’s got the white contacts in and, like, rectangles of red around his eyes?”   
  
“That _would_ be sick,” Dom concedes.   
  
“Right!?”   
  
“I couldn’t help it though; I didn’t wanna cover up your perfect features.”   
  
“Ew, dude,” Colson says, laughing and scrunching his face up. “That’s _so_ fuckin’ cheese.”  
  
“I know,” Dom says, cupping the back of Colson’s neck with his hand and kissing him tenderly, tasting the artificial strawberry flavor of his lip gloss.  
  
He breaks off the kiss after a brief moment to press his forehead to Colson’s, his eyes still shut. “Thank you,” he says, soft and appreciative, “for cheering me up.”   
  
“Who says this was for you? Maybe I just wanted to feel pretty.”   
  
“Wanker,” Dom says, in an openly adoring tone of voice. 

* * *

  
There comes a point, during one blissful three-week stretch after Dom has finished touring the western United States, when he spends so much time at Colson’s house that people seem to expect his presence. He’ll walk in, and Slim or Baze will take one look at him and usually nod in the general direction of Colson’s studio, no questions asked. Rook starts doing this thing where he greets Dom by exclaiming, _The prodigal son_ , in a bad Texan drawl. Nobody really knows how that originated.  
  
On one blisteringly hot summer day in particular, Slim opens the front door for him, dressed in swim trunks and holding a sweating bottle of Dos Equis. The sights and sounds of a laid-back party eke out through the open door, a gaggle of people milling about in loungewear and swaying to some nameless chillhop song.  
  
Slim makes brief eye contact with Dom before turning to call over his shoulder, “Ay yo, Kells! Special delivery!”   
  
Dom barely just makes out Colson’s voice somewhere in the background going, “Huh?”   
  
“Your favorite stress reliever,” Slim says back pointedly, and Dom is too bewildered in the moment to identify exactly why, but it makes his cheeks go warm.  
  
Colson comes up next to Slim in the doorway a couple of seconds later, bumping shoulders with him. He too is shirtless, and dripping in what is presumably pool water, his hair falling around his face in wet ringlets and his tattoos glistening invitingly. He looks surprised to see Dom, asking Slim, “Why didn’t you just say, _Dom’s here_ , like a normal person? Had me thinking you found us a new weed guy already.”   
  
Slim shrugs and says, “I know y’all like to be discreet.” He raises his beer in a salute, looking between them both, then walks back inside unceremoniously, leaving a split second of stunned silence in his wake.  
  
Then Colson takes a step backward, his head swiveling in the direction of his retreating friend, and barks, “Slim, are you fuckin’ - Wait!”  
  
When he doesn’t get a response, Colson rubs a hand over his face, grimacing. “Fuck,” he says, emphatically.  
  
Dom, overheated from both the blood pooled in his face and the sun beating down mercilessly on him, is suddenly very aware of how long he’s been standing on Colson’s front steps; awkwardly waiting to be let in, extremely ill-dressed for the weather in a black jumper and denim dungarees. He clears his throat, wanting to break the spell that Slim has inadvertently - or, who knows, maybe _advertently_ \- cast on them. “I can leave. Sorry, I didn’t know you were hosting something today.” The words sound passive-aggressive, but he doesn’t think he intends them to be.   
  
“No,” Colson says, brow furrowed. “Stay. We should… we should probably talk.” A random eruption of laughter from inside the house makes him visibly flinch, and he shoots a wary glance backward before returning his attention to Dom, still frowning.  
  
Dom swallows around the lump that’s forming in his throat, and shakes his head. “That’s okay, I don’t wanna bother you. I’ll text you later.”   
  
“Dom.”   
  
“See ya, mate.” He turns before Colson can see his face crumple, and hurries down the steps, thoughts swirling into a murky cloud.  
  
“Dom!”  
  
He’s already calling a Lyft as he walks, fingers tapping at his phone screen by rote as his brain arrives at one looming realization: _I can’t keep doing this to myself_. 

* * *

  
Slowly but surely, Dom starts to wean himself off his dependence on Colson’s attention. While he’s in the U.S., he’ll make excuses when Colson sends him one of his usual furtive come-ons, keeping his responses light and peppy and interspersed with emojis to allay suspicion.  
  
When they do meet up, Dom keeps things platonic and rigidly punctual. Gone are the nights of debaucherous partying that lead to the two of them sneaking away to talk for hours on some abandoned penthouse roof, drunkenly snogging when the mood shifts into that electric haze that overtakes them like clockwork when they’re together. The taste of whiskey on Colson’s tongue, his insatiable mouth and blown pupils, one hand down Dom’s pants, teeth teasing at the tender skin of his neck… He frequently forces his memories of those sensations away and tells himself the indulgence isn’t worth it in the long run.  
  
Dom notices Colson giving him a puzzled look once or twice, when they’re at the same event with several people separating them and Dom hasn’t said more than five polite words to him all night, but beyond that, it seems his attempts to carefully distance himself from Colson are working. When he anxiously discusses it with Tom; who had immediately known, without needing to be told, about the nature of Dom’s relationship with Colson; he asks him what brought this all on.  
  
Dom describes Colson’s reaction to Slim finding them out, and how that was just the cherry on top of a brutally consistent pattern of compulsory secrecy, of the one-sided shame and inhibition that footnoted their every intimate interaction. As much time as they’ve spent together, and as much progress as Dom had _thought_ he’d made in piercing Colson’s laboriously constructed defenses, he ultimately hasn't shown any sign of properly embracing his own sexuality - and even if he did, the man is fucking terrified of commitment, and Dom is only now coming to terms with the fact that he won’t be the one to magically rid him of that deep-seated aversion.  
  
Tom’s reaction to this impassioned explanation is an eyebrow raise and a quietly uttered, _Wow_.  
  
 _Yeah… I know._  
  
It’s infinitely easier when Dom and Colson are oceans apart, and Dom can pretend Colson doesn’t exist until one of his deliberately indifferent selfies appears on his Instagram feed or his stage name flashes across his screen in a Twitter notification.  
  
He’s on Dom’s mind late one night after such an occurrence - a grateful tweet about the numbers one of his recently released musical collaborations is doing that has Dom yearning to call him up and gush about how much he loves it and how proud he is of him. He’s weighing the pros and cons of sending a succinct text message instead when his phone alerts him to an incoming FaceTime from  
💖😝💋🖤✨ k ✨🖤🥰😈💕, which is still what he has Colson’s number saved as in his contacts.  
  
He stares blankly at the screen for a second before he accepts the call out of sheer curiosity, his heart suddenly in his mouth.  
  
For a moment, the only part of Colson that’s in the frame is the very top of his head, and Dom blinks in confusion until he hears his voice, spine-tinglingly rough, say, “Oops, lemme actually sit up first.”  
  
The amplified sound of fabric rustling crackles through his iPhone speakers before Colson’s face pops into view. “Hi,” he says, eyes sleepy and hair looking more like a bird’s nest than ever.   
  
“H-hi,” Dom says back, self-consciously adjusting his camera angle. He looks a mess, having removed his makeup and gotten ready for bed hours ago, only to stay up perusing social media in between mechanical bouts of online shopping.   
  
“Sick PJs,” Colson says, blindsiding Dom with a bright grin that triggers a lamentable ache deep inside his chest.  
  
“Shut up,” Dom says instinctively, casting his eyes down at his oversized, cow-patterned sleepwear all the same. “How are you even awake? It’s, like, what - ten in the morning over there? Mister dead-to-the-world-till-past-noon.”   
  
Colson rubs at one of his eyes, shaking his head. “I spent last night sober, that’s how.”  
  
Knowingly, Dom asks, “Weed and scotch?”   
  
“Duh,” Colson says, pulling a face. “I’m not a eunuch.”   
  
“The fuck’s a _eunuch_?”   
  
“Oh - These, like,” Colson gestures incomprehensibly with one hand, “In, uh, ancient times, there were these dudes who’d have their dicks chopped off, and - ”  
  
“ _What_ ,” Dom exclaims, eyes widening.   
  
“Y’know what, never mind,” Colson says, laughing ruefully. “The important thing is, I woke up _not_ feeling like a zombie for once, and I just… For some reason, I wanted to see you.”   
  
Dom moistens his lips silently, trying to lasso the glee that’s bouncing around inside him in reaction to that statement.  
  
Colson, undeterred by his lack of verbal response, continues, “Honestly, I… I’ve really fuckin’ missed you.”   
  
Dom speaks up at that, his voice feeling weak. “I was in LA just three days ago.”   
  
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Colson says, his eyes travelling somewhere off-camera, before he seems to refocus with a slight frown. “Listen, I get that I… fucked things up.”   
  
“You - ” Dom starts, sounding strangled, then clears his throat and tries again. “You were just being yourself. I, um. I wasn’t ready to accept it for a long time.”  
  
“No, see, I’ve been thinking. That day, with Slim - ”  
  
“We don’t have to - ”  
  
“Bro. Yes, we do. First of all, the only reason he even said anything is that he was a little jealous.”   
  
Dom’s mouth drops open. “Uhh… ”  
  
“Crazy, right? We had a whole talk about it. I was like, _you have to be pranking me_.”   
  
“Jealous of _who_?”   
  
Dom can’t tell if his eyes are playing tricks on him, but it almost looks like Colson’s face is turning red. He musses his hair, his hand lingering over his forehead. “He’d beat my ass if he knew I was telling you this, but we kind of had a… a _thing_ , when we were younger.”   
  
“A thing,” Dom parrots, uncomprehending.   
  
Colson speaks his next words in a rush, hand sliding down to cover his eyes. “I might’ve sucked him off a couple times, or whatever. Nothing wild. We kinda pretended it never happened.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Dom says, unable to keep in a surprised laugh.  
  
Colson groans, turning his head into his shoulder. “Dude, remembering it makes me cringe _so_ hard. We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing.”   
  
“Well, you must’ve been pretty good at it even then,” Dom says, talking over Colson’s pained _fuck you_ , “for him to be jealous all these years later.”   
  
“It’s seriously not like that with us,” Colson says, huffing out a breath. “He was just, like, displacing some other shit. We’re good now. And anyway, the main thing I wanted to say is, um. I told the rest of the guys.”   
  
Dom doesn’t dare to hope he means what he thinks he means.   
  
“About us,” Colson elaborates.  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
“Yeah, so - for what it’s worth - if you ever wanted to come by my crib again, or even the tour bus… it’s like, all kosher.”   
  
Dom smoothes a hand over his mouth, overwhelmed and unsure of what to say.  
  
An awkward pause follows that Colson breaks with an eventual sigh. “Okay. I just thought you should know, in case you… ” He trails off, gnawing at his lip. Then, abruptly, “You’re probably dead on your feet. I’m gonna let you go now.”   
  
Dom nods dazedly. “Goodnight. Er, morning. Good mor- Have a good day, is what I mean.”   
  
_Of all the bollocks to come out of your mouth right now..._  
  
The look of trepidation on Colson’s face morphs into one of amusement, at least.   
  
“Thanks, _guv’nah_. Get your ass to bed.”   
  
“I’ll do that,” Dom says.   
  
“A’ight. Peace.”  
  
 _FaceTime ended_.  
  
Dom pushes his phone away and buries his face in his hands, his body thrumming with energy that it doesn’t know what to do with. His brain is screaming big questions at him that he doesn't actually want to answer presently, wants to let himself bask in the wonderful fucking feeling of Colson caring enough about him to initiate a conversation like the one they just had, to allow himself to be so vulnerable.  
  
Hell, Colson had come out to some of the closest people in his life of his own volition! Dom can’t imagine the willpower that must’ve taken, knowing what he does about Colson's upbringing and the lasting effect it had on his psyche.  
  
Impulsively, Dom straightens and reaches for his phone again, pulling up his iMessage thread with Colson and texting him a trio of black heart emojis. Words are beyond him at the minute, but he needs Colson to grasp even the slightest fraction of the appreciation he's feeling.  
  
Colson’s reply, which arrives within seconds, eloquently reads: 🤘🤓🧘💡🌚🤭🤝  
  
Dom bursts out laughing, partly because _what the fuck is that supposed to be_ , and partly because literally anything could make him laugh right now; he’s full of those fizzy pink effervescent bubbles that’ll rush out of him at the slightest provocation.  
  
When he falls asleep that night, emotionally fried, he dreams of Colson - swathed in sheets of gossamer and whispering things Dom can’t quite make out. 

* * *

  
**1.5 Years Later**

For much of the past two months, Dom and Colson have each been so busy with their respective careers that their only interactions have been through technology. They both finally decide, after going a full 48 hours without a single text or call, that they need to take a few days off to spend some quality time together.  
  
Dom meets Colson at the airport and cannot physically prevent himself from dragging him into a bone-crushing hug as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in his cologne. How he can smell so irresistible after a ten-hour flight is an utter mystery.  
  
“Hey,” Colson murmurs into his hair, fingers at the nape of his neck.  
  
“Sorry,” Dom says, pulling away and sticking his trembling hands in his pockets. “We should - ”  
  
Colson cuts Dom off by brushing his hair out of his face, tracing the line of his jaw before his hand returns to his side. “Don’t apologize,” he says, his eyes so intense that Dom temporarily forgets to breathe.  
  
He swallows, lowers his voice to say, “Are you trying to get me to jump you in front of all these people?”   
  
Colson smiles. “C’mon, let’s find somewhere private. I dunno about you, but I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”  
  
They manage to fuck twice - quick and dirty and forcibly stifling wanton noises that would give them away to random passersby - before they make it to Dom’s flat at long last, and there, a third round commences, Colson bending Dom over his kitchen island and tumbling into bed with him shortly thereafter, movements shifting from rough and desperate to languorous and worshipful. Snatches of half-coherent praise fall out of Dom’s mouth as Colson leaves a trail of kisses between his legs, fingers stroking softly over sore spots that are going to become bruises later, mementos to ease Dom’s increasingly disconsolate longing when Colson flies back to America.  
  
They go to dinner that evening, this atmospheric Moroccan place with curtained booths, and Dom plays footsie with Colson under the table while he orders for them, gazing dreamily at the interplay of light and shadow across his face as he points at the menu, bathed in candlelight.  
  
“I’ll have the chicken tagine,” Colson is saying now, finally getting to the entrees, “and my boyfriend will have the lamb.”  
  
Dom completely freezes, his heart skipping a beat.  
  
Their server walks away with the menus and Colson raises his glass of water to take a sip, oblivious to Dom’s imminent mental breakdown.  
  
“ _Boyfriend_?” The word explodes out of Dom like a bullet, and Colson chokes on his water, coughing and spluttering.  
  
“Scared the shit outta me,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What even - ”  
  
“You called me your boyfriend,” Dom says, and it comes out sounding like a plea.  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Colson says, adorably gruff, “Aren’t you?”  
  
He looks nervous all of a sudden, eyes shifting every which way and fist clenching and unclenching over his unfurled napkin. Dom loves him so wholeheartedly he could _scream_. Instead, he leans across the table to kiss him, one palm cupping the back of Colson’s head and the other covering his fist on the table as he licks into his mouth, enraptured.  
  
“To be continued,” Dom promises when he relaxes back into his seat, brimming over with affection and arousal and feeling like he can accomplish anything in the world he sets out to do when Colson looks at him like he is now.  
  
“Goddamn tease,” Colson says, in that low voice of his that drives Dom mad.  
  
“Now, now, Boyfriend,” Dom says, trying to conceal his breathlessness, “Patience is a virtue.”  
  
Colson reaches one annoyingly long arm over the table to mess up Dom’s intentionally disheveled hair, making him yelp. “I spent like twenty minutes on that,” he complains, batting Colson’s hand away.   
  
“What’s twenty minutes to a virtuous king such as yourself?”  
  
Dom laughs despite himself, giving in to his desire to slide out of his side of the booth and go over to Colson’s, pressing up next to him. Colson drapes an arm around Dom’s shoulders and Dom leans his head against his chest, a profound sense of comfort suffusing him.  
  
 _I love you_ , Dom mouths experimentally into the air as Colson draws little shapes on Dom’s shoulder with his finger. The words don’t fall into place just yet, but Dom knows they will soon enough, can feel the indentations where the syllables will fit being gently carved into the juncture of their skin.  
  
 _So this is what it’s like_ , he thinks, distracted by Colson’s touch even as their server returns with their appetizers, _to be happy_. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Truthfully, I first started writing this just so I could slap together some words about MGK's personality* and how it ties into his self-expression through fashion and shit. Someone tell me why this funky bastard is so interesting to me! 
> 
> 2) Forgive me if my British-isms are terrible; I tried. 😔
> 
> 3) Like every fic writer in existence, I deeply appreciate comments! If you leave me one, you are an absolute star. 
> 
> *And also his face because he has a good one. Shhh.


End file.
